


With Eyes Open

by TimeSquid



Category: Thief (Video Games)
Genre: Character Death, Deathfic, Gen, Heavy Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-12
Updated: 2018-04-12
Packaged: 2019-04-22 01:55:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14298213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TimeSquid/pseuds/TimeSquid
Summary: "The shadows grow deeper when the balance is lost. Dark enough to trip the unwary, especially one who courted happenstance with eyes open."





	With Eyes Open

**Author's Note:**

> Eternal thanks to [Haethel](http://archiveofourown.org/users/talitha_kumi/pseuds/Haethel) and [Brohne](http://archiveofourown.org/users/brohne/pseuds/brohne) for editing and support in general!

Basso shivered and pulled his coat closer around himself, trying to shield himself from the wind and the rain. Mud had seeped through the holes in his boots and squelched unpleasantly between his toes as he shuffled his feet. His hair was stuck to his forehead and dripped water into his eyes, and Basso absently noted that he’d lost his hat at some point. Blown away by the wind probably, or he simply forgot to put it on in the first place. Didn’t matter.

 

There wasn’t enough alcohol in the City to wash away the memories of last night. Rounding the corner to Clocktower Plaza after a night of heavy drinking at the Siren’s Rest. Nearly tripping over a dark shape on cobblestones gleaming red in the gaslight. Finding Garrett lying in a pool of his own blood, motionless and with his limbs at odd angles. He’d nearly emptied his stomach then and there, but instead he’d sunk to his knees, ignoring the old ache, and had cradled Garrett’s head in his lap. Basso could still see Garrett’s eyes, wide and terrified as he tried to speak, blood bubbling dark and thick from his mouth as he'd struggled to form words.

 

“Basso … I can’t … can’t feel …”

 

There hadn’t been anything he could do except hold his friend until he drew his last wheezing, wet breath. Basso had gently laid Garrett’s head down, closed his eyes, and then he'd emptied the contents of his stomach into the nearest corner.

 

Still sick to his stomach and suddenly entirely too sober he’d enlisted the help of two beggars and their cart to bring Garrett to the old chapel. He’d spent the rest of the night cleaning up his friend’s body and getting progressively more drunk. This was not a job to be done sober.

 

It had always felt wrong to undress Garrett, no matter how urgently his wounds had needed seeing to after a job gone wrong. Basso knew how much the thief had hated being exposed, never voluntarily revealing as much as his neck. This time he hadn't flinched and shied away when Basso had peeled off the blood-sodden leathers, but it hadn't made the procedure any less difficult.

 

Basso had nearly thrown up again once he'd had the damn thing off. Nothing could've prepared him for the sight of Garrett's injuries. After a deep breath and an even deeper swig from his bottle he'd set to work, trying not to dwell on the one question that burned in his mind. As he'd cleaned off the blood, all he'd seemed to achieve was to reveal more layers of scars that littered the thief's pale skin; some old and faded, many much more recent. It had taken several hours of work and several more bottles of wine until Garrett had been more or less recognisable, and by the time he'd been done Basso hadn't been sure whether his vision was blurring from alcohol or exhaustion.

 

Now he stood at the old Mourningside cemetery with a bastard of a headache and only the Queen of Beggars and a decrepit old gravedigger for company. A few of the Queen’s beggars hung around nearby, obviously unsure whether to approach or stay away. It almost made him wish Erin was here, although he knew better than to expect her to show up. Garrett deserved better than a pauper’s funeral with only two people who even knew his name in attendance. And yet, Basso was certain that he wouldn’t have wanted it any other way. Despite hoarding priceless artefacts and glittering baubles like a magpie, Garrett had never cared for luxuries when it came to himself. At times it had made him wonder if Garrett had even realised he was human, not just the Master Thief.

 

Basso swallowed past the lump in his throat. He needed to know.

 

“Did he … did he jump?” he croaked, wishing desperately for another drink as he choked on the bile that threatened to rise up again. It wasn't possible. Not Garrett. But Garrett hadn't been himself for a long time. Not since Erin had disappeared. No, not since he'd returned after the accident even. Blinking the water out of his eyes Basso glanced over at the Queen of Beggars, suddenly afraid of getting an answer. Wrapped in her voluminous fur coat she looked unperturbed by the rain, her expression as unreadable as ever. Maybe he shouldn't have asked. Maybe it was better not to know.

 

There was a faraway quality to her voice when the Queen finally spoke. “The shadows grow deeper when the balance is lost. Dark enough to trip the unwary, especially one who courted happenstance with eyes open.”

 

“Eh?” What in the trickster's name was she on about? Basso let out a pained groan. “Please, no riddles. Not after the night I've had. Give an old man a break.”

 

Something almost like sympathy flickered over the Queen's withered face. “Very well. He didn't jump. It was an accident.” Basso almost let out the breath he'd been holding, but she hadn't finished speaking. “Nonetheless, what happened was his own doing. You've seen it yourself.”

 

Swallowing thickly, Basso nodded. He didn't question how she knew what had happened. He'd known her long enough to accept that she just did. She'd probably even known it was going to happen. In a way, so had he.

 

Garrett had been in no condition to be up on the roofs of the City, let alone take on jobs. He'd never gained back the weight he'd lost during his year-long absence. Quite the opposite – hollow cheeks and sallow skin had spoken of malnourishment as clearly as the ever darker smudges under sunken eyes had told of a lack of sleep. He'd tried to hide the new holes in the straps of his harness, but even underneath all the layers of leather and cloth his exhaustion had been so obvious that Basso wondered why he’d even bothered. With every passing week he'd looked sicklier and increasingly fragile, and when Basso had lifted Garrett off the blood-slicked cobblestones, his broken body had felt as insubstantial as the shadow he'd always aspired to be.

 

Despite his deteriorating health Garrett had driven himself relentlessly, taking on more jobs than ever. Riskier jobs too, that Basso knew he'd normally have rejected. The thief had always been cautious to the point it had bordered on paranoia, but something had changed. Basso wasn't sure whether Garrett had been desperate to keep himself occupied, to prove himself, or something else entirely, but at first he'd been thrilled about it. He was a businessman after all, and Garrett brought in much-needed money. It hadn't taken him long to realise that the extra income came at a high cost.

 

The first time Garrett had shown up on his doorstep bloodied and bruised Basso hadn't thought much of it. These things happened. Thieving was a dangerous profession, even more so when you were the City's most wanted thief. He'd removed the crossbow bolt from Garrett's shoulder, cleaned and bandaged the wound, and sent him on his way.

 

His shoulder had only just fully healed when two months later Garrett had again appeared on his doorstep in the early hours of the morning, bleeding from a nasty gash in his side and barely keeping his feet. Basso had patched him up and made him stay at the Crippled Burrick this time. As skittish as a colt and as stubborn as a mule, and doubly so when he was hurt, it had taken all of Basso's persuasive skills and threats to just knock him out, but Garrett had finally agreed. There was no way he’d have made it up the Clock Tower in his condition, but Basso was sure he'd have attempted it anyway.

 

Morose and withdrawn, Garrett had barely spoken a word throughout his entire stay, instead sleeping most of the time. Or, as Basso suspected, pretending to sleep, though he'd definitely looked like he needed the rest. Garrett had never been chatty, but Basso had always had the impression that he’d at least enjoyed teasing him. Not this time. Any attempts to coax him into engaging in their usual banter had been met with deafening silence. As soon as he’d been able to walk unassisted he’d been gone, and Basso hadn’t seen or heard from him for over two weeks after that.

 

Neither of them had mentioned the incident again, and Basso had nearly forgotten about it when one evening a couple of weeks later he'd returned to his basement office in the early hours of the morning, in good spirits after a night in good company. His good mood had immediately evaporated when he'd found a familiar small shape slumped half on the floor, half on the bed. Upon closer inspection he'd found Garrett out cold, bleeding heavily from a head wound and what looked to be a stab wound just under his ribs. Frowning, he'd heaved the unconscious thief fully up on his bed. How on earth had Garrett come by a knife wound? It wasn't like him to let anyone get close enough to stab him; he'd usually be long gone before anyone could draw their weapon.

 

Garrett had spent the next two days drifting in and out of consciousness. At times Basso had worried his friend wouldn’t pull through, that his body would be too weakened to fight the fever. When he’d cleaned and bound Garrett’s wounds he’d found papery white skin stretched tightly over bone, the thief’s small frame seemingly swimming in his leather armour. He’d cursed himself for not noticing it sooner, but Basso knew there wouldn’t have been anything he could’ve done. 

 

For the first time he’d started to question whether there was something more sinister behind this string of accidents. The suspicion had kept nagging at him when over the course of the following few days Garrett was lethargic and listless, barely eating enough to keep himself alive and ignoring all of Basso’s attempts at conversation, suffering from nightmares when he slept. The injuries had healed slowly. It had been another three days until Garrett had even attempted to get out of bed, testament to how poorly he must have felt. For him not to even try to do a runner … Basso had been worried to say the least.

 

Soon, Winter came. It was customary for Garrett to hole up in his Clock Tower for as long as the roofs were covered in snow and ice, and Basso hadn’t seen nor heard from the thief for weeks. When Garrett had finally emerged from his isolation, he’d looked worse than ever. His ashen complexion, clammy skin and glassy eyes had hinted at lingering illness. Nevertheless Garrett had thrown himself into his work immediately. Basso had tried to refuse him jobs, appealed to him to take it easy, but the thief had just rifled through his documents and disappeared into the night.

 

Garrett’s incessant work had kept the clients happy, but Basso had been ill at ease every time he’d sent him on a job, waiting for the next accident to happen. He’d known that one day something was going to happen that he wouldn’t be able to fix. That one day Garrett would make a mistake that would cost him his life. Distant and aloof, Garrett had brushed aside Basso’s concerns, insisting that he was fine despite all evidence pointing to the contrary.

 

Sighing deeply, Basso turned to the Queen of Beggars. “There must’ve been something I could’ve done. I tried, but he wouldn’t listen …”

 

The old woman shook her head almost imperceptibly. “He knew what he was doing.”   
  
The clarity of her statement hit Basso like a punch in the stomach. It shouldn’t have come as a surprise –  _ didn’t _ come as a surprise – but to hear the Queen of Beggars say it somehow made it worse, more real. Strong, resilient Garrett had wanted to die.

 

Basso could only imagine what demons had haunted his friend. He’d used to tease Garrett for being a miserable bastard, but it had stopped being funny a long time ago. Something had changed after Garrett had gone missing. The whole thing with Orion––  For a while, Basso had feared the thief had caught the Gloom, but the Gloom had all but vanished from the City and he hadn’t gotten any better. Garrett had never said anything, of course, had never even told Basso what exactly had happened that day, but Basso knew he’d felt Erin’s loss keenly. For all their differences, he had cared deeply about the girl. She’d been the only family he’d had. Had Garrett blamed himself for all that happened to her? Had the loneliness finally gotten to him? 

 

Garrett had lived his whole life alone in the shadows, with no-one to confide in, no-one to pick him up. Basso had been the closest thing he’d had to a friend. The thief had come to him at his most vulnerable, but even then – whether out of pride, paranoia or reticence – he’d never really  _ talked _ to him. When he’d convinced Garrett to take Erin on as an apprentice, it hadn’t just been for her sake. Basso had hoped she’d be able to bring the thief out of his shell, get him to open up. For a while, it had almost worked. But then of course it had all gone to shit, and Garrett had been alone again.

 

Blinking away the stinging behind his eyes, Basso sighed again. Whatever had driven Garrett down this path, it was too late to change anything. Nothing would bring him back. Basso’s knees protested as he bent down and grabbed a handful of dirt. It landed on the coffin lid with a final-sounding thump. Basso signalled the old gravedigger, gave a short nod to the Queen of Beggars, then turned away and headed to the Crippled Burrick. Time to get hideously drunk. First he’d mourn his friend. He could worry about the implications for his business another day.

 

A few days later Basso visited Garrett’s grave once more. A small bunch of white poppies lay on the freshly-turned soil, resting up against the headstone.

  
  



End file.
